I trusted my daughters to watch their sick little brother for just two hours while I went to handle a work emergency.
But then my son texted me, begging me to come home. At that moment, I knew something was terribly wrong. What I found when I rushed back made me question everything I thought I knew about my own daughters.
I never imagined that one day, I would feel like I had to choose between my children.
Let me start from the beginning.
I’m a 45-year-old mother of three. My daughters, Kyra and Mattie, are both in their twenties. They’re fresh out of college with shiny degrees, but they can’t seem to land jobs that match.
They moved back home about five months ago when their apartment lease fell through, and the job market chewed them up and spat them out.
Then there’s Jacob. My baby. He’s seven years old, and he turned out to be the brightest light in my life. I didn’t know I could love like this until he came along.
Kyra and Mattie are from my first marriage. Their father and I divorced twelve years ago, and it was not pretty. He painted me as the villain in their story, and they believed him. They chose to live with him after the split.
I became a visitor in my own daughters’ lives. I saw them on weekends and holidays, and every time I walked into their world, I felt like an outsider.
Then I met William. He was kind, patient, and gentle in a way I hadn’t known for years. We got married, and a year later, Jacob was born. William adored that boy. He gave Jacob the kind of fatherly love every child deserves.
But my daughters? They never gave William a chance. Their father made sure of that. He filled their heads with lies about me, about William, and about why my marriage ended.
To them, William was the reason their family was broken, and Jacob was the proof of it.
When the girls went off to college, their dad paid their rent. It was the one reliable thing he did.
But last year, he remarried a woman who didn’t like my daughters one bit. Fights broke out, and soon, their dad stopped paying their rent.
That’s when my phone rang.
“Mom, we need help,” Kyra said, her voice small, almost like the little girl I used to tuck into bed. “Dad cut us off. We can’t afford the apartment anymore, and we don’t have jobs yet. Can we stay with you? Just until we get on our feet?”
What could I say? They were my daughters. Despite everything, I said yes.
But life was already breaking me down. William was sick. He was fighting cancer, and I was watching the man I loved fade away.
When he finally lost his battle, grief ripped me apart. Our home is filled with his memory. Jacob asks about his dad every single day, and I have to swallow my tears just to help him through his own.
The girls came back home right in the middle of this nightmare. They were respectful at William’s funeral. They hugged me, whispered comforting words. But I saw it—the calm in their eyes. They weren’t broken like me. They weren’t even sad. They looked relieved.
I told myself it was grief playing tricks on me. But deep down, I knew it wasn’t.
When they moved in, I tried to make it feel like home.
“Mom, where do you want these boxes?” Mattie asked, her face blank, standing in the hallway with her suitcases.
“Just take the two rooms upstairs on the left,” I said. “Make yourselves at home.”
Jacob peeked around the corner, nervous. “Are Kyra and Mattie staying forever?”
“For a little while, buddy,” I told him, ruffling his hair. “Isn’t it nice to have your big sisters around?”
He nodded, but his little smile didn’t reach his eyes.
Living with them again was strange. They were grown women, but it was like they had reverted to teenagers overnight. Sleeping until noon. Leaving dishes piled high. Scrolling endlessly on their phones while I worked, paid bills, and soothed a grieving child.
I didn’t ask them for money. I didn’t ask them for rent. I just wanted one thing: that they show a little kindness to their brother.
But they couldn’t even do that.
They were polite on the surface. A “good morning” here, a “how’s school” there. But there was no warmth. Jacob would show them his dinosaur drawings, beam as he told them stories, and all they gave him were tight smiles before finding excuses to leave.
One night, as I tucked him in, he whispered, “Why don’t Kyra and Mattie like me?”
My heart cracked. “They do like you, sweetheart. They’re just… going through a hard time.”
“Because of Dad?” he asked.
I kissed his forehead. “Yeah, baby. Because of Dad. Their dad.”
But the truth? His sisters resented him. They resented that he existed at all. And I could see Jacob slowly realizing it, too.
I kept hoping time would fix it. But it didn’t.
And then two days ago, it all collapsed.
Jacob woke up with a fever, pale and miserable. I called him in sick to school and set him up on the couch with blankets and cartoons. He threw up twice, and my heart ached for him.
Then my phone rang. A client emergency.
“I can’t leave Jacob,” I said firmly.
But my boss pressed harder. “Sandra, this client is 30% of our revenue. If we lose them, we’re looking at layoffs. I need you here.”
I couldn’t afford to lose my job. Not with two grown daughters living off me and a child depending on me.
I looked at Kyra, scrolling her phone, and Mattie, buried in a book.
“I need you two to watch Jacob for a couple hours. He’s sick. Please, just check on him, make sure he’s okay.”
Kyra didn’t even look up. “Yeah, sure. No problem.”
I knelt by Jacob. “Buddy, I have to go to work for a little while. Kyra and Mattie will be here. If you need anything, call them, okay?”
“Okay, Mom,” he whispered, weak.
I kissed him and left, guilt clawing at me.
An hour later, my phone buzzed. A text from Jacob:
“Mom, can you come home, please?”
My heart dropped. I called him. No answer. I texted: “What’s wrong, sweetie? Are you okay?”
His reply made my blood run cold:
“I threw up again and I called for Kyra and Mattie but nobody came.”
I called my daughters—no answer. I didn’t hesitate. I left the office, barely able to breathe as I drove home.
When I burst through the door, I screamed, “Jacob?!”
“Mom!” His voice came from upstairs, small and broken.
I ran up. He was sitting on the floor by his bed, vomit on his shirt, tears streaming.
“I called for them,” he whispered. “I called and called… but they didn’t come.”
I hugged him tight. My fury boiled. After I cleaned him up and settled him back in bed, I stormed downstairs.
Kyra was in the backyard, scrolling on her phone. Mattie was in the kitchen with the microwave running.
“Where the hell were you?!” I exploded.
Kyra blinked. “Mom? What are you talking about?”
“Jacob was calling for you! He was crying, sick, throwing up—and he had to text me because neither of you answered!”
Mattie appeared, annoyed. “We were here the whole time.”
“Then why didn’t you answer him?!”
“I didn’t hear him,” Kyra said defensively.
“I was blending something,” Mattie added. “The kitchen was loud.”
“You didn’t hear him?!” My voice shook. “He was screaming for you!”
“Okay, we’re sorry!” Kyra snapped. “We didn’t mean to miss him.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Did he text you?”
They froze. “No,” Kyra lied.
“Show me your phones.”
“Mom, come on,” Mattie rolled her eyes.
“SHOW ME!” I yelled.
Reluctantly, they handed them over. My hands trembled as I opened Kyra’s messages. There it was. Jacob’s text: “Kyra I threw up. Can you please help me?” Seen. No reply.
Mattie’s phone—same thing. “Mattie, I need help. I’m scared.” Seen. No reply.
“You read his messages. You knew. And you did NOTHING,” I spat.
“Mom, we were busy—” Kyra started.
“Busy? He’s seven years old! Sick! Crying for you! And you ignored him. Because you hate his father. Because you resent him existing!”
“That’s not fair!” Kyra cried.
“What’s not fair,” I snapped, “is that a child who just lost his dad has sisters who treat him like garbage. You let him suffer. You let him cry alone. And I won’t forgive that.”
Mattie glared. “You’re acting like we’re supposed to be his parents. We didn’t sign up for this.”
“I asked you for TWO hours. That’s not parenting. That’s basic decency. And you couldn’t even manage that.”
Kyra’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re choosing him over us.”
“No,” I said firmly. “I’m choosing to protect my son. I won’t let him feel unwanted in his own home.”
Their faces went pale when I said, “You have one week to find somewhere else to live.”
“What?!” Mattie gasped.
“You heard me. One week. Pack your things.”
“You can’t be serious,” Kyra whispered.
“I’ve never been more serious in my life.”
That was two days ago. Since then, they’ve been silent, moving around the house like shadows, slamming doors, refusing to speak. I know they want me to feel guilty. And maybe I do. They’re still my daughters. I love them.
But every time doubt creeps in, I see Jacob’s little face. His quiet sadness. His fear.
Last night, he crawled into bed beside me.
“Mom?”
“Yeah, baby?”
“Are Kyra and Mattie leaving because of me?”
My heart shattered. “No, sweetheart. They’re leaving because of their choices. Not you. Never you.”
But I don’t know if he believed me.
Now I sit here, drowning in guilt. Did I overreact? Or did I do exactly what any mother would do to protect her child?
Because no matter what, one thing is clear: I won’t let bitterness and cruelty poison my son’s only safe place in the world.
So tell me… was I wrong?
